If you’re awake enough and coherent enough, it’s the perfect opportunity to observe human behaviour at its most peculiar and, often, at its worst.

It’s also a bit of a corporate meat market. A fair assumption would be that very few people begin their holiday on a 6am flight, so most of the grumpy sleepy sardines crammed into the metal tube hurtling through the air at that time of the morning are travelling for work.

Generally speaking, there are no crying babies or intoxicated skinny-jeaned musicians. Generally speaking, it’s one of the few times we are happy – nay, grateful – to drink “coffee" that smells like burnt cardboard and eat muffins with expiry dates years away.

Being a female who knows her way around an annual report on a 6am flight offers a unique perspective.

The ratio on these flights, roughly speaking, would be one female passenger to 15 to 20 males. I’d never thought that working at the The Australian Financial Review would be a turn-on, but on the 6am, it seems to be.

Due to sheer laziness, I often end up in the middle seat, therefore in the middle of a fascinating peacock display. Last week, on my left we had Peacock #1: a PhD graduate who felt emotional IQ was a more powerful tool in management wars than an MBA.

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On my right, Peacock #2: a high-powered executive in the liquor industry who gave me a detailed analysis of their top-sellers.

The rows in front and behind contained secondary preening peacocks.

Ladies, if you’re lacking confidence and attention, book a 6am flight.

The other day, on a one-hour Sydney to Melbourne flight, ring-less Peacock #37 took 58 minutes to sheepishly drop into conversation that he had a wife.

Um, well, congratu-bloody-lations.

I don’t know about you mate, but I’m not here, squished into seat 10E, looking for options.

I’m here because this is the quickest means of getting to my interview commitments for my actual job.

Is chivalry dead?

The cynic in me finds the whole experience bemusing. I mentioned this to a friend who works in politics and is also a 6am veteran. He said, “I told you. Everyone falls in love with girls on these domestic flights."

He’s guilty of the odd pick-up line, too.

When I mentioned how ridiculous the whole scenario is, he said, “Yep. This is why I always say Mad Men would have been a more interesting show if it had been about how much things HADN’T changed, not how much they had".

And yet . . .

Has anyone ever helped pop my bag up into the overhead compartment? Nope. Have I seen any other woman helped? Nope.

This week, an engineer in his 50s just stood there in the aisle, his hands clasped, as I played Olympic weight-lifting with my suitcase right in front of him. Just stood there, looking intently at the sticky carpet. Probably afraid to chip a nail or something.

Has the women’s liberation movement really scared the bejesus out of men this much?

When did it become chivalrous to steadfastly look away and not bother to help?

If a 6am flight is anything to go by, you’d think the concept of a gentleman was well and truly dead.

I promise you, I won’t get angry or defensive or give you attitude, I’ll in fact be super-grateful and flash you an extra-big smile despite the lack of sleep.

Which brings me to the final dismount. Even before the seatbelt sign goes off, the jackets get put on, the suitcases get territorially placed in the aisle, and the competitive rush to get off that plane begins.

Of course, I’m left to struggle with my own bag. It’s not that I expect help, it’s just the harshness of it all I find a bit surprising.

Unless your carry-on luggage contains an esky full of kidneys, I actually don’t think your meeting is more important than mine.

And yet, I’m fascinated by this morning microcosm of high society.

And, when I helped a fellow female traveller retrieve her bag a few rows back, her smile of thanks stayed with me all day.